And what of the rivers

And what of the rivers, where one used to drink, cup handed and smiling? It happened in secret, behind the clown nose and jive shows, and they only charged a buck-what a deal. Cutting fish heads they count the dead, laying them back where their found. They don't loose count for it takes only a lunch break, paddling through plastic waters that smell of profit to the right noses. We have traded water for air in rivers of wheels, spatting down the 101. And kids pealing orange shaped juice boxes-instead of oranges. Sometimes I envy the Sun, so far away, and burning bright; but even He lives cursed to consume and can not touch be touched, get close enough to smell the scent of life before it is stretched, ambiguous and dead. In time, only ghosts will be able to count all the money they have made.

I once dreamed of a waiting room.

I once dreamed of a waiting room
where sunless light fell across dead shoulders.
Lists of life peered through

the glass, and I could pick my next life.
a gopher
a whale
a dragon of pixels
a man
an ass

and all where there that was not
here. A quiet room, with no
need for sound,

left actions lingering, falsely
awaiting comment or something

to judge the space between static

and infest. A normal dream, meant
nothing and more

seemed to project the out inward
but reversed for easy viewing. With
so many options I

couldn't decide
and what was the hurry. The need to

live after life was strong, like
the urge fuck and
maybe that

was it. I found myself
in the land of ice cream,

and all I wanted was cake.